


Sandalwood Smelling Salts

by Folle



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Biting, Blood Kink, Creampie, Cum Inflation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Mutual Pining, Please for the love of God read the tags, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sloppy Seconds, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27272893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Folle/pseuds/Folle
Summary: The heir, Mortimer, is pushed to his breaking point when a fight breaks out during the harvest festival. Needing to get away from everyone, he heads off on his own for a walk through the weald to clear his mind. However, he didn't anticipate wandering in on a pair of brigands out camping.PLEASE READ TAGS
Relationships: Heir/Brigand Hunter, Heir/Brigand Raider, Heir/Brigand Raider/Brigand Hunter, Heir/Leper (Darkest Dungeon), Heir/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Sandalwood Smelling Salts

**Author's Note:**

> This is extremely dubious consent, bordering on noncon, so if that is not your cup of tea then do not read.

Sometimes, everything at the Sometimes, everything at the hamlet was too much for Mortimer to handle at times. Noble blood ran through his veins, but that never meant he was raised as such.

Certainly he spent the winters visiting his estranged uncle. And in those few months, his uncle would impart wisdom on etiquette and the court. But he spent far more time with his father, who drilled a sense of business tact into him since the day he was born.

Managing fleets of fishing vessels was a breeze. And perhaps being in charge of just the hamlet wouldn't have been so bad either, but being in charge of his band of adventurers and mercenaries was a nightmare.

Every single person had problems, with each other and with themselves. And Mortimer was the only person who could solve them, in their eyes.

As much as he hated it, micromanaging these assholes was the only way he was going to keep them alive.

But everyone has a tipping point. And Mortimer's? Had to be a drunken fist fight during the harvest festival.

It wasn't just his adventuring party either, but farmers, clergy, the rich, and the poor, absolutely everyone. Having a drag out fight in the middle of the hamlet, blood on the cobblestones, bottles being smashed. 

Mortimer was only trying to help some poor priest back to the abbey. But he stepped out of the tavern to see the swarm. It could be mistaken for a battlefield if it weren't for the stench of alcohol.

"Oh for the love of..." He nearly dropped the priest to the ground. The irritation and frustration in him that had been building in him all festival was burning in him like a hunger.

But he found the tipping point after watching the spectacle for a few moments. Oh and what a tipping point it was. 

Fresle. Oh beautiful Fresle, who always had the right words for every qualm Mortimer had. So soothing, so sturdy. Almost serene, in a sense.

And currently knocking the blacksmith to the ground with a solid punch.

They catch eyes, and Light if Mortimer is holding back the waterworks. Just... he just wanted one day. One day to relax. 

He deposits the priest on a crate, turns on his heel, and leaves the hamlet. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Fresle start to say something before his mouth snaps shut.

The weald isn't the safest place for someone, especially someone unarmed and without a day of combat training, to wander. Especially when you've been drinking all day.

_ Well, as long as I stay off the well beaten paths, I shouldn't run into too much trouble, _ Mortimer thinks. As he tromped through the brush, muck splashed on his breeches. 

Between the pits of mud, thorny brambles, and clusters of sputtering fungus, Mortimer had his eyes focused close to the ground. It wasn't the mind clearing walk he wanted, but it was enough to stave off of how much he wanted to individually throttle each and every one of his adventurers.

Mortimer picked up his pace when he saw a clearing. The sky was already starting the darken, and he needed to get his bearings. He could feel whatever it was that lingered in the shadows pulling at the frayed edges of his psyche.

He didn't stop to think, once, that maybe he shouldn't head to the light in the middle of the woods. The optimistic, and perhaps morbid, side of Mortimer hoped that whoever was camping had wandered off and was slaughtered by a giant.

But when he stumbled through the brush, there was a lone figure squat near the campfire. Mortimer smiled and nearly called out a greeting, until they stood up.

At the stranger's full height, he stood a head above Mortimer. 

It wasn't too impressive, as Mortimer was a short and slight man. But the breadth of his shoulders, the helmet muffling and amplifying his breathing, oh and the dagger pressed against his throat made him feel no larger than a child.

"Now, what do we have here?" Mortimer had never heard the brigands speak before, aside from grunts of pain. But he wasn't expecting a honey smooth voice that made Mortimer's stomach flutter. "Ruthren, were you expecting company?"

Mortimer hadn't seen him behind the flames, but the first thing he sees when he stands up is a wolf pelt mantle. The second is a broad, stubbled chin with chapped lips.

The third is the musket in his hands.

He shakes his head, and seems pretty keen on pointing his gun right at Mortimer.

The brigand turns Mortimer around, and presses himself against his back. He inches him closer to the fire, dagger still against his neck. "What's a pretty young thing like you doing all alone in the weald?"

Mortimer can't stop himself from trembling. Like he woke up from a nightmare, and wracked with tremors. Though, he would prefer the dreams of inescapable, dark corridors to the dagger biting into the tender flesh of his neck. "I- I, uh... I'm..."

"Look at 'im, Ruth. He's freezing." He settles his free hand on Mortimer's hip, rubbing circles into his breeches. "We can help with that. Of course, that'll come at a price. 'Cause my pal Ruth and I are pretty lonely out here. We could use a bit of... Company."

"I- um, I actually have somewhere to be." His voice is weak, and it is taking all of his effort to raise it louder than a whisper. "My friends are waiting for me." I hope.

"Is that so? 'Cause I've seen you 'round these parts with your friends, killing everything in your path. But you're out here alone, no gun, no knife, no friends," The brigand lets his fingers slip under the waistband of Mortimer's breaches. "No nothin'. So I think you're gonna do what we tell you, and if you're lucky, you'll live to see the sun come up."

_ Oh Light, oh Light, oh Light. _

Mortimer shakily nods his head. He tries to gulp, but his throat is too dry. 

"Ruth, would you help our friend with his clothes?" 

The wolf man doesn't waste any time. Setting his gun to the ground, he strides forward and starts unbuttoning Mortimer's shirt and bracers. His fingers feel like fire when they brush against his skin. 

He untucks the tails of Mortimer's shirt, and discards it. Ruth rakes his fingers through the short, sparse hairs on his chest.

Mortimer arches his back and muffles a sharp gasp when Ruthren's nail catches on his nipple. The brigand's quiet laugh sounds tiny, and Ruth tilts his head to the side.

"Oh, you like that?" The brigand drifts his hands to the laces of his breeches. "I think I know something you'll like even more." He starts picking at the laces. 

Mortimer briefly thanks the Light he's abstained from anyone's illicit offers and tied his laces up nice and sturdy. It won't stop the inevitable, but hell, at least it'll buy him some time and theoretically catch his breath.

The wolf man isn't so kind. He rubs his thumb over Mortimer's nub for a few moments, before leaning down and bringing it into his mouth.

Mortimer has to bite down on his knuckle in a vain attempt to suppress the moans bubbling up in his chest. He breaks the skin when wolf man scrapes his teeth down his nipple and lathes it with his tongue.

By the time the brigand has gotten the laces loose, Ruthren has knocked the dagger to the side, and has started in on his throat. 

The brigand grabs both of Mortimer's wrists and jerks them behind his back, and ties them together with one of the bandages wrapped around his wrist. He removes his gauntlets, and pushes Mortimer's breeches and smalls down. 

The chill of the autumn air is quickly chased away by Ruthren crowded him. Mortimer can feel the hot press of his semi-hard cock against his pelvis, even through his loincloth.

"Now where are my manners? Can't well scream my name if you don't know it. I'm Dwennon, but I won't mind if you call me Dwen." He slides his hands down Mortimer's sides. He settles on his hip, and the other wanders to his ass, giving one cheek a firm squeeze.

Mortimer whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut. All he had to do was suffer and bear it until they let him go. If they let him go. If they didn't just slit his throat and toss him aside once they were done.

And perhaps, he would be able to manage having his body violated in the most intimate manner possible. He compartmentalized every other aspect of his life, and this shouldn't have been any different.

But these were no ordinary brigands, who would nab someone off the road and either rob them, or give them a quick fuck before ending their lives and tossing them to the mire. No, they were taking their time, exploring his body, seeing what illicit reactions they could draw from him.

Ruthren had already discovered how to coax breathy gasps from him by twining his thick fingers into his curls and roughly tugging. 

He nipped and sucked a trail of hickies up Mortimer's neck before catching his lips in a punishing kiss, that felt more like gnashing against his mouth.

On the other hand, Dwen seemed content to grab Mortimer's hips with a bruising grip, and grind up against his ass.

Mortimer can't help take in and let out a shaky breath when he feels the already hard rod rub against his crease.

"Such a fine arse," Dwen grumbles. "Bet it'll look lovely spread around my prick." 

Mortimer's cock twitches at the thought. 

Dwennon seems to take notice, however, and slips a hand between Mortimer and Ruthren to stroke it at an almost torturous pace. "What's this pet? I think our friend here likes it. Go get the poppy oil, would you?"

Ruthren growls, and chomps down on his bottom lip, giving one last kiss that smears blood across his lips. He steps back to admire his work, rubbing his thumb along his swollen and bloody lip. "Pretty..." he rasps.

Before going through the sack by the fire, Ruthren divests himself of his loincloth and tunic. His body is heavily muscled and covered in wirey, dark hair and pale scars. In the light of the campfire, Mortimer can see that every inch of him is sunkissed and toned from a life of hard work.

And if he thought Dwen's cock felt large, the it's nothing compared to how massive Ruthren's actually is. 

He pulls the glass vial out, and hands it to Dwen. He wastes no time in hooking an arm under Mortimer's thigh, and hoisting it up. When his smalls get in the way, Ruth nabs one of Dwen's daggers and slices them off. 

Mortimer wiggles at the loss of Dwen's hand on his cock, but Ruth swiftly distracts him by lapping at his bloodied lips and inside his mouth. He makes muffled moans and noises of protest at the intrusion and the tang of iron. 

But his eyes go wide and he jerks his head back when he feels one hand spreading his cheek aside, and slicked fingers probe at his hole. "No!" he gasps. "P-please, don't-"

"Shut it," Dwen snaps, shoving a finger in. If it had been any other man, it might not have been so bad, but these brigand boys were bred to be big and thick. And it had been quite a while since he's slept with someone. 

He had been working at cleaning up his uncle's mess for a few months shy of a year now, and before that Mortimer could scarcely think of a time in the years before that.

Mortimer instinctively squeezes down when hardly after he gets the first finger in, he crams in a second. His throat aches and constricts with a sob.

It isn't exactly painful, per say. Because as much as Mortimer wants to fight against it, the entire experience isn't entirely unpleasant, even with the pain. The shame and anger and fear only makes the warm coil in his stomach burn brighter. Not being able to stop the brigands, being an object for the, to use... it makes his dick throb.

"Fuckin' tightass, shouldn't even other stretching you out. You would be the tightest fuck we've had." 

Ruthren gives a grunt that Dwen seems to understand, and removes his fingers. He unceremoniously shoves Mortimer to his knees, and when Ruth takes a step back he's knocked onto his front. 

Mortimer grunts in surprise, and breaks the fall with his shoulder, but still gets knocks in the head, making his teeth painfully clank together.

His breathing picks up, nearly into hyperventilating. Ruth settles down in front of him and lifts him up by his hair.

That's when Mortimer finally is brought face to face with Ruthren's cock. It's even larger than he'd estimated.

He looked down expectantly as he held Mortimer near his cock. Ever shuddering breath that came out of Mortimer and wafted across his dick made it twitch.

When Mortimer didn't start in, he gripped his hair tighter and growled, shoving it against his cheek, leaving a smear of pre-cum.

He could hear Dwen doing something behind him. Cloth was shuffling, buckles were clanking. To shove the vague idea of what Mortimer knew was going to happen from his mind, he took the head of Ruth's cock into his mouth.

The taste wasn't anything spectacular, but was more than he had been expecting for a wild man squatting out in the woods. There was the salty tang of sweat. And he smells heavily of must and soil. Mortimer thanked the stars that there were no festering pustules or clumps.

The wolf man let out a sigh as Mortimer experimentally sucked and licked his way down his dick, carefully minding his teeth. But even that became difficult when he had to stretch his jaw uncomfortably wide. The wounds on his lips split open and started bleeding again.

Of course, Mortimer had sucked a dick or two in his lifetime. Some, the unnatural cleaned and perfumed of the upper class, others that hadn't been cleaned in likely months.

But never something of this size, or this dangerous.

When something very large and slick started to slide between his cheeks, Mortimer tried to pull himself off. Begging was all for naught, but it was compulsive.

However, Ruthren kept his grip tight, and forced Mortimer back down.

"Best keep on sucking boy, you're going to want all the lubrication you can get when it's his turn," Dwennon taunted. He groaned when his head caught against Mortimer's rim on the upwards thrust. 

It was only when Mortimer started gagging and sputtering around Ruthren's cock that he let him back up for air. Though, he seemed pleased at rutting against Mortimer's face. "If you're going to fuck me, then just get it over with already!" he barked. 

Dwennon hummed, pressing the tip of his cock against Mortimer's entrance. Just lightly enough that it wouldn't go in. "And where's the fun in that? I'll cut you a deal though. If you ask nicely enough, I'll give you a good, thorough fucking. Best fuck of your life, I promise. What'dya say?"

"I..." No, there wasn't any way he could make the words come out. These filthy brigands were forcing themselves on him! Committing a filthy, depraved act, and would likely gut him and leave him for the mutts come dawn.

As much as he wanted it done and over with, stoop so low... He could just grit his teeth and spit it out, but he thought Dwennon would use his insincerity against him. It was simply the sort of man he was.

When Mortimer didn't speak up, Dwen wrapped a still slick hand around Mortimer's cock. Slowly, he stroked him up and down. Almost torturously so. His hand was so large it almost entirely encapsulated his cock.

Could he bring himself down to their level, over something as trivial as sex? They certainly thought so, but Mortimer just wanted it to end. 

But the slowly building, and quickly abating, pressure in his loins said otherwise. All they were doing was fanning the flames, and it had been oh so long since he had been company with someone other than his left hand.

Mortimer said something so low under his breath, it sounded little more than a rush of air.

"What was that pet? I didn't seem to catch that. did you Ruthren?" He strarted stroking Mortimer's cock even slower.

The wolf man shook his head.

"I said... I said- Dwennon, please fuck me, I desperately need your cock inside me."

He couldn't see the man, but Mortimer knew he was grinning.

"Is that so? And what is it that you want me to do with my cock exactly? I'm afraid I need clear instructions."

"I want-"

"Want?"

"N-need. I need you to fuck- Light please fuck me hard, fill me up with your cum. U-use me however you please." Mortimer wouldn't say there were tears well up in his eyes, but that Ruthren's pre-cum had gotten in them.

"I can't say no to a request like that, can I?" It was the only warning Mortimer got before Dwennon rammed his cock into him.

It was like all the air got punched out of his chest. The pain was sudden and bright, but abated after a while. The sheer size, being stretched and filled to his limits, was pressing up against everything. Rubbing against his prostate with every thrust.

Mortimer let out a loud, long moan. 

Ruthren was quick to take advantage, and shoved his dick back into Mortimer's mouth. However, this time he slipped his cock down Mortimer's throat with little care of his gagging.

Mortimer wanted to thrash, to force his way off, but Dwen changed his pace, thrusting deeper. Mortimer could feel him in the base of his spine. His thrusts were much faster, his heavy balls slapping against Mortimer's with each brutal stab. 

The lack of air was starting to become troublesome though. His chest was burning, and throat aching as Ruthren fucked his throat at the same pace as Dwennon.

His nose was not just buried in the thick thatch of pubic hair, but smashed into it. Mortimer was certain that something had broken, but the panic of his air running low overwhelmed any other pain.

But the pleasure... As he desperately started gasping, trying to get free, the pleasure only ramped up more and more. 

"C'mon pet, cum already. You don't get to breathe until you do."

Ruthren grunted in confirmation, and gave a jerky thrust.

He couldn't keep this up. The waves of pleasure were unrelenting, and there was nothing Mortimer could do to fight against them. The pressure kept on building and building, like a storm, until the dams broke.

The edges of Mortimer's vision started to darken when he did. He could hardly manage to scream as the band inside him snapped. Ruthren pulled out when Mortimer's cock painted the ground and his stomach, but Dwennon fucked him through it. Faster and rougher than he had before.

Mortimer heaved in breaths as he moaned and spasmed. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and for a brief moment his vision completely blacked out. His head fell against Ruthren's thigh as he heaved in and out staggered breaths.

He doesn't know how much later it was, but eventually with a strained groan, Dwennon came. His insides were flooded with hot cum. Far more than any normal man should. And with how deep he was, and his girth, there was no way for it to go but in. It was a strange sensation, but one that had already made Mortimer's cock twitch in interest.

Dwennon stayed in him while his cock softened, and he found the energy to pull out. When he did, cum oozed out of Mortimer's hole dribbling down his taint and thigh. He pulled himself to his feet.

"All yours Ruth, jus' give 'im a minute to recover."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dwennon tromp off to his bedroll by the fire.

The air felt more still with just Ruthren. Even though his dick was rock solid, her sat there, running his fingers through Mortimer's curls. In a way, it was almost tender. More than expected. 

Mortimer still couldn't see his eyes through the shadows of his mantle, but the wolf man kept his eyes fixed on him. 

With his other hand, he swiped up some of the blood leaking from Mortimer's nose and licked it. He made a thoughtful noise, and started rubbing Mortimer's temple and hairline with his thumb, while caressing the back of his head instead.

It wasn't until he breathing evened out, and he stopped jumping at every touch, that Ruthren let Mortimer's head drop to the ground. 

He circled around behind him, and mounted him. While Dwennon had, at first, gone slow, Ruthren was truly a beast. He gave no mercy as he viciously fucked into Mortimer.

And though he came not too long ago, he was already hard again. Each thrust was punctuated by a moan, and Mortimer couldn't shut his mouth to stop drool from dribbling out. His eyes started rolling into the back of his head, but not from lack of air this time.

Ruthren dragged his nails down whatever he could reach. Mortimer's back, biceps, thighs, hips. Some welled up with blood, but all left violent pink streaks.

The closer he got, the more he hunched over. With one hand, he pulled Mortimer's head back by his hair, while the other squeezed his throat. Not enough to cut off air, but certain enough to bruise.

"Mine, mine, mine, mine," he growled under his breath.

But when Ruthren finally came, it was with a grunt stifled by a bit to the junction of Mortimer's neck. He just kept cumming, filling him with more and more of his seed that never seemed to end.

Mortimer could feel the cum seep further into him as Ruthren fucked further into him. It joined Dwennon's own. It felt strange, the slime swelling up and shifting around inside of him.

Ruthren rested against his back for a few minutes, catching his breath and lapping up the blood spilling from the bite wound.

Eventually, reluctantly, Ruthren removed himself, causing more cum to leak out. In an almost cautious, curious way, Ruth opened Mortimer with a finger. He pressed up on the slight swell in Mortimer's stomach, and watched the cum gush out.

Mortimer whimpered at the sensation, and tried to clench himself shut but couldn't. 

Ruthren hauled him up once the flow stopped, and picked up a dagger. Mortimer's heart nearly stopped, and he squeezed his eyes shut, because screw facing death like a man. But instead of the dagger being thrust into his soft flesh, the bindings on his wrist were sliced.

His eyes opened up in confusion. Mortimer flexed his hands experimentally, and was handed his shirt and bracers. Though he hesitated a moment, Mortimer was quick to get them back on, and get his breeches laced up.

He looked into Ruthren's eyes briefly, and gave a nod, and a quick peck on the cheek before fleeing into the weald.

Mortimer didn't know if the Dwennon would come after him or not, but he wasn't keen on finding out.

The hamlet came into view after an hour trekking back through the path he had taken. Thankfully, he hadn't run into anything else. His feet had carried him much faster back than when he left.

In the four hours he was gone. the streets of the hamlet were cleared, though still littered with broken glass and blood. He spotted Medley on his way to go howl up on the hill, but no one else on his way to the abandoned banker's house he holed himself up in. 

He had intended to bathe, before immediately dropping into sweet oblivion. But when he passed by the door to the study, he noticed a light on inside.

Curiously, he pushed the door open to find Fresle in an armchair near the fireplace, book in lap. His mask was on a nearby side table, but he was quick to put it back on when he heard the door creak.

"Mortimer-" he said as he stood to face him. A frown quickly formed on his face as he took in the sight of his employer. 

Fresle could be light on his feet when he wanted to be, and was at Mortimer's side in the blink of an eye. "Who hurt you?" his fingers, light as feathers, skimmed over his cheek and neck. His voice, usually so tempered, was bordering on rageful.

"It's inconsequential." Mortimer hadn't planned on speaking so quietly, but he couldn't get any louder. And how hoarse he was... "Did you wait here for me all night?" he asked.

"Yes, I needed to apologize for my behavior. It was unacceptable." There was more, Mortimer could feel, that Fresle wanted to say. More that Fresle wanted to press, but there was rarely a time when he would demand anything from his boss.

"It is accepted. Now go to sleep, everyone's going to have a long day tomorrow cleaning up after today's festivities." Mortimer chuckled. "Which includes you as well. Think of it as penance."

That frown of his mellowed out and even quirked up into a smile. "As you wish. Goodnight, Mortimer. Please see a doctor in the morning. Your wounds greatly concern me."

Mortimer's heart flutters, but something about it feels almost tainted. "I'll do so. Goodnight to you as well, Fresle."

And like that, he was left alone in his study. As soon as the doors closed, Mortimer collapsed into the chair Fresle had been sitting in. It still held his warmth. 

And if he closed his eyes for just a moment, he could pretend that Fresle's arms were wrapped around him.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so the mega milk cum thing is basically because I wanted cum inflation, and I'm blaming it on some edlritch god corrupting the land/ancestor shenanigans.
> 
> Also god fucking bless the hornye darkest dungeones server for giving me this title because i couldn't think of anything else, and also for putting up with me while my horny ass wrote this


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